


Family Reunion

by thalassashells



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:41:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalassashells/pseuds/thalassashells
Summary: Ysayle decides it is time for Hilda to meet those she has taken as family.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dazzler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazzler/gifts).



> Gift! And an absolutely delightful one to write at that!

   It was not that Hilda was a particularly devout woman, but waking before the sun felt unholy all the same. Her lover had crept as carefully as she could from their shared bed, leaving Hilda still wrapped in the blankets she had stolen in the midst of sleep. Unfortunately, there was only so quiet Ysayle could be on the creaking floorboards of Hilda’s apartment, or fussing with the ever-squeaking sink to wash her hair that would take until dawn to dry.

   She wonders sometimes why Ysayle doesn’t just sleep in her offered noble’s quarters as an official and respected diplomat, but she always comes to the same conclusion: for the similar, alienating reasons that Hilda does not accept the one laid out for her. For the feeling of walking among those who have never understood you. Never quite the same, no, but they would always have more of a home in each other than in Ishgard’s Pillars.

   Hilda sits up and stretches, looking over at Ysayle combing her dripping hair in the mirror only in her undergarments, despite the chill.

   “You’re like to catch a cold like that, Iceheart.” She yawns, the name less of a title and more of an endearment in recent days. Ysayle laughs in her short, cut off way that only someone close to her would know as a laugh and not a rude dismissal.

   “You do not need to be up quite yet, dear. I will wake you.” Ysayle’s voice is quiet.

   “Eh, you and I both know I ain’t getting any more sleep than I have. Gotta pick out something fancy for your pa anyway, right?”  she chuckles, as if any of her clothes qualify as “fancy”.  They made plans to take a week for their own, and travel to Tailfeather to meet those Ysayle called family.

    Ysayle shakes her head and smiles as she pulls on riding pants and a thick jacket, fitting her long body so differently from her typical flowing robes, “Wear what pleases you. They are not ones to stand on formality.”

   “I find that hard to believe if they spat you out!” Hilda is silently relieved. She opts for her typical attire, both comfortable and warm against her skin.

   “Blame it on Falcon’s Nest, I suppose.”

   “Because farmers are _so_ much more proper than hunters, aye.”

   Ysayle comes up behind her while she finishes fastening the last couple of buttons on her jerkin, wrapping her arms around Hilda’s waist and resting a chin on her shoulder.

   “I look all right, then?” Hilda asks and rests her hands on Ysayle’s.

   “You look beautiful.” Ysayle whispers, and kisses her cheek.

\---

   Ysayle was an old hand at chocobo riding as it turned out, and she had sprung on one of the large bulls easily capable of carrying two people. Had it not smelled like bird, Hilda may have felt like a princess being welcomed onto a knight’s noble steed to ride with her into the sunset. It did smell like bird, though, and Hilda spent most of the ride with her face resting against Ysayle’s back anyway, with long hair tickling her nose.

   They arrive in the early evening, and while Hilda had been able to sleep a few bells on the ride, Ysayle was alarmingly awake for someone who had not. Being in Tailfeather seemed to invigorate her, opposite the way Hilda felt confused and wary of all the open space, the lack of towering grey walls. She had left the city before, of course, but never for long and never for pleasure.

   Ysayle takes her by the hand with a broad smile, leading her into the village. Hunters were drinking and singing, tending to their chocobos and fixing meat and laughing. Tailfeather was brimming with life even as night fell, and Hilda could find a home in that.

   Hilda is introduced to Priorfaix, who manages to have about three sentences of conversation before launching into a full course on chocobo care and breeding – they slip away under the excuse of needing to meet someone in particular and he reluctantly continues his thoughts to the bird he grooms.

   “He’s changed little since I last saw him.” Ysayle’s tone is apologetic.  

   “We all have our hobbies.”

   Kester, the skywatcher who Ysayle says has been forecasting for the little camp since she first arrived more than five years ago now, Hervoix and the new hunter Q'yantaa. They all greeted Ysayle as if she had left yesterday, and not disappeared into the wilds for years on end. Hilda is surprised with the ease they accept her, as well, as if just being with Ysayle made her a friend to be cherished.

   Ysayle finds herself the one being introduced to the many Vath who have now made their home here. Hilda had met them once before, travelling with the scion Thancred on reconnaissance. Ysayle leans down to shake each of their tiny hands. Her gaze softened in the way that Hilda had only otherwise seen when Ysayle spotted a particularly soft looking mutt, or perhaps a shaggy looking croc in the central highlands.

   “Ysayle!” cries a man’s voice from in front of them, “And her girl!” they both look up to see a scraggly bearded man fully dressed in furs, a cigar held tightly between his yellowing fingers.

   “Marcechamp!” Ysayle returns in a rare moment of exuberance, running over to embrace him. They were far more common now, with the war a memory.

   “Marcechamp, this is Hilda, who I wrote you about. Hilda, Marcechamp.” She introduces, a hint of anxiety lining her voice as her father in all but name and her lover scan each other from head to toe. Everyone breathes again when they shake hands.

   “I’ve heard a lot about _you_ , Hilda. Ysayle wrote me a couple of moons back, like some giddy schoolgirl! Talking about your ‘raven hair’ and ‘ruby eyes’…” Marcechamp recalls her letters in truly mortifying detail, taking on a high-pitched imitation.

   Hilda stares in shock while he finishes, then looks once at Marcechamp, and once at Ysayle who has gone white as a specter, before breaking into peals of laughter that must have startled the entire forest.

   Ysayle’s pale face turns a violent red and she crosses her arms with a sharp glare at Marcechamp, “I sent those to you in confidence!” She protests.

   “Come now, lass, it was nothing she hasn’t heard from your mouth, right?” he laughs, patting her shoulder. Hilda is still chuckling, biting her lip red in a failed attempt to stifle herself. It is part amusement, yes, but part that she is bursting in her chest that someone spoke of her in such…. poetic terms. That said person was Ysayle, charismatic diplomat and apparently abysmal poet, filled her to the brim.    

   “He’s right, love.” She agrees, “In fact, I’ve heard _much_ worse.”

   “That is not his to hear either!” Ysayle huffs again as Marcechamp takes his turn to laugh, but finds herself soon mollified with a gentle kiss from Hilda, and a prompt assurance that no one else would hear of it.

   “You two must be awful tired,” Marcechamp notes, his senses quite correct, “Why don’t you to come in? I made some damn good catches today, too good not to share, and there’s mead aplenty.”

   Ysayle is starting to look rather haggard, and Hilda is more than intrigued by the promise of ale and meat. They follow him into his cabin hand-in-hand, and Hilda makes plans with herself to stay in this side of Ysayle’s life.


End file.
